The Guts (3 page)

—I’m with yeh.

—It wasn’t that I couldn’t take it in. I didn’t want to take it in. It was borin’.

—Ignorance is bliss, maybe.

—Maybe that too as well, yeah. But I’ll tell yeh. There was a picture – on the Wikipedia page, like. A woman gettin’ her chemo.
She had the scarf, yeh know – the baldness. Sittin’ back in a big chair.

—Was she good lookin’?

—Park tha’ for a minute. She was wearin’ big mittens, on her hands, like, and these wine cooler yokes, padded tubes. On her feet. To reduce the harm to her nails.

—An’ was tha’ borin’?

—No, said Jimmy.—No. Tha’ frightened the shite out o’ me.

—Yeh don’t want to damage your nails.

—Fuck off, Da. It’s not – it’s. If it can damage fingernails, what’ll it do to the rest of me?

—Toenails are even harder.

—I know, said Jimmy.—I could cut meat with mine.

—Me too, said Jimmy Sr.—I broke the fuckin’ nail scissors tryin’ to cut them. How’re the crisps goin’ down, by the way?

—Grand, said Jimmy.—Why?

—Well, said Jimmy Sr.—Wha’ yeh said earlier. You said yeh were afraid to eat annythin’.

—Oh, yeah. Yeah. No. I’m grand.

—I thought crisps might be a no, said Jimmy Sr.—They look like they’d rip the hole off yeh. Just the look o’ them, yeh know.

—Here, said Jimmy.—D’you want the rest of them?

He held out the bag.

—No, you’re grand, said his da.

—I need water, said Jimmy.—The salt.

He stood up and went across to the bar. He’d go home in a few minutes. The barman was looking at the golf on the telly over the door to the toilets. Jimmy waited. He counted the tellys. There were seven of them. All on, sound down. Golf, news, golf, singing, rugby league, ads and golf. The barman looked away.

—When you’re ready.

—Yeah?

He looked foreign, Polish or Latvian or that part of the world. But he wasn’t foreign.

—Could yeh give us a glass of water, please?

The barman sighed and turned away.

That proved it, Jimmy decided. The cunt was a Dub.

The barman came back with a pint glass of water. Jimmy took it.

—Thanks.

Nothing from the barman. The ignorant prick.

He went back to his da.

—I’ll have to go in a minute, he said.

—Yeah, said Jimmy Sr.

—I’ll tell Aoife – tonigh’.

—Won’t be easy.

—No.

—Fuckin’ hell, son.

—I know.

—D’you want me to tell your mother?

—No, said Jimmy.—No. Thanks. I’ll tell her myself. Tomorrow – probably. There’s the kids too – fuck.

—How’ll yeh manage tha’?

—I haven’t a clue, said Jimmy.—There’s probably a book. Or a website. How to tell your kids you have cancer. Fun with cancer dot fuckin’ com.

He smiled.

—I’m gone, he said.

He took the car key from his pocket.

—Seeyeh.

His father stood up too.

—I’ll come with yeh.

—To the house?

—No, said Jimmy Sr.—The car park just. I’ll see yeh to your vehicle.

—I thought you were here for the nigh’.

—No, said Jimmy Sr.—No. I think those days are gone.

—You’re a new man.

—I’m an old fuckin’ man, said Jimmy Sr.—I can’t have a few pints annymore without havin’ to get up to go to the jacks three or four times a night. So I have my pints earlier an’ I call it a day, earlier, if tha’ makes sense. An’, fuck it, I’m happy enough.

—What about the lads?

—The lads, said Jimmy Sr.—The lads are kind of a distant memory. But that’s a different story. Not for tonigh’. Come on. We’ll get you home.

They walked to the exit. Jimmy let his da lead the way. His da waved at someone in a corner – the pub had more corners than New York – but Jimmy couldn’t make out who it was. The place was fuller than it had been. It was still quiet enough but most of the tables were occupied. It felt foreign, in a way. He didn’t know who was who, or what was going on. He didn’t go to places like
this any more. Not that he couldn’t catch up. There wouldn’t be much training needed, or upskilling, to get back in the swing. Not the drinking – the reading, the knowing. The guy beside the cigarette machine was definitely waiting for someone. The way he was standing; he half expected to get thrown out. And Jimmy half recognised him. He’d gone to school with his brother – or his father. And the woman sitting on her own with her vodka parked exactly in the centre of her table, like it might be someone else’s.

Jimmy knew her.

—Imelda?

She looked at him.

—Jimmy Rabbitte! For fuck sake!

She laughed and stood and opened her arms and he marched in there between them and felt her hands slide across his back. He was late with his own hands, getting them to move. She kissed his cheek, about half an inch from his lips. Then she stepped back, nearly into the table behind her. She laughed again.

—Let’s see yeh.

She smiled at him.

—You’re lookin’ well, Jimmy.

—So are you, he said.

—Ah well.

She
was
looking well. She might have been a bit pissed – Jimmy wasn’t sure – and a few kilos heavier, but Imelda Quirk would never not look well.

His da was at the door.

—Yeh righ’? he shouted.

—Just a minute, Jimmy shouted back.

—Yeh goin’ somewhere? said Imelda.

—Yeah, said Jimmy.—Yeah.
Home to my wife, to tell her I have cancer
. ’Fraid so.

—Typical Jimmy, said Imelda.—Always runnin’.

He didn’t know what to say – he hadn’t a clue.

—Get out your phone, she said.

—Wha’?

He could feel his da looking at him. But he looked across to the door and his da wasn’t there.

—Your phone, Jimmy, said Imelda.—Not your mickey.

He laughed. He wasn’t blushing, and that made him ridiculously happy. He took his mobile from his pocket.

—Ready? she said.

—You’re givin’ me your number.

—You’re still a fuckin’ genius.

He laughed again. She recited the number, quickly.

—Get tha’?

—No bother, he said.

He saved the number.

—Phone me, she said.—When you want to.

—Will do, he said.—Great seein’ yeh. It must be twenty years.

—Don’t fuckin’ start, she said – she smiled.—I was still in primary school twenty years ago. Is that understood?

—Loud an’ clear, said Jimmy.—I’m gone. I’ll phone yeh.

He probably wouldn’t. He had cancer, kids, a wife he loved.

—Grand, she said.

She was sitting down again. There’d be no kiss goodbye, no hug.

—Tomorrow maybe, he said as he left.

—It’s up to you, Jimmy.

His da was leaning against Jimmy’s car and the alarm was going. He’d heard it inside when he was talking to Imelda. Now though, it was loud – and his. He pointed the key and clicked. It stopped.

—Did yeh fuckin’ jump on it?

—No, said his da.—It went off the minute I fuckin’ looked at it. I was only walkin’ over.

—Anyway, said Jimmy.—I’m gone.

—Grand, said his da.

—To face the music.

—It must feel like tha’, does it?

—A bit, said Jimmy.—But look it. Thanks.

—You’re grand, said Jimmy Sr.

He rubbed his hand across his mouth.

—It hasn’t sunk in, he said.

—I know.

—I’ll say nothin’ at home.

—No. Thanks.

—Well —

Jimmy’s da put his hand out, high. He touched Jimmy’s neck.

—Fuckin’ hell, son.

—I know.

—Go on.

—I’m goin’.

—Phone me, said Jimmy Sr.—Any time, righ’?

—Yeah, said Jimmy.—Thanks.

He opened his door.

—D’you want a lift?

—No. You’re grand. I’ll walk.

—Righ’. Good luck.

Jimmy got into the car. It was warm. There’d been heat in the sun, although it was getting dark now. He waited till his da was walking away before he shut the car door.

He filled the dishwasher. He took a white wash out to the line and hung the clothes in the dark. He kept an eye on the kitchen window while he did it, to see if Aoife was alone in there. She wasn’t. He watched her, angry and gorgeous, giving out shite to Mahalia. He came back in – she was gone. He made tea. He didn’t drink it. He emptied the dishwasher. She came in, followed by Brian, then Mahalia.

He tapped Brian on the shoulder.

—Come here. You as well, May.

He brought them in to the telly. He pointed at it.

—That’s a television.

Brian laughed.

—Now, said Jimmy.—You sit in front of it. That’s right, good man. Perfect.

He held up the remote.

—Have yeh seen one of these before?

—Yep, said Brian.

—Good man again, said Jimmy. – You can watch it for half an hour, okay?

—I already had my half-hour, said Brian.

—You’re too honest, Smoke, said Jimmy.—I told yeh. Be a bit sneaky.

—Sneaky.

—That’s right, said Jimmy.—Have you had your telly today yet, Smokey?

—No!

—Have you not? Well, here yeh go.

Jimmy lobbed the remote at him, and Smokey – that was Brian – caught it.

—I don’t want to watch telly, said Mahalia.

Jimmy kept forgetting she was thirteen – although she looked it.
He’d never get used to it. His oldest child, Marvin, was a seventeen-year-old man. The youngest, Brian, was too big to be picked up.

—Just do me a favour, May, said Jimmy.—Stay here for a bit. I need to talk to your mother.

—Begging forgiveness, are we? said Mahalia.

—Somethin’ like that, he said.

—Good luck with that, she said.

—Is that eye shadow you’re wearin’?

—Did you just ask me to do you a favour, Dad?

—I did, yeah.

—The eye shadow is my business then, said Mahalia.

—You don’t need it, yeh know.

—That’s not an argument.

—I love you.

—So you should.

He left them there. Brian wouldn’t budge and Mahalia loved being involved in the messy, stupid world of the adults, even if involvement meant staying out of the kitchen for half an hour.

But Aoife was gone. There was a kid with his head in the fridge and he wasn’t one of Jimmy’s.

—Who are you?

The kid stood up and, fair play to him, he blushed.

—I’m hungry, he said.

—Good man, Hungry, said Jimmy.—But what’re you doin’ pullin’ the door off my fridge?

The kid looked confused, his red got redder. Jimmy felt like a bollix.

—Jimmer said you wouldn’t mind. Or Missis – your wife, like. Are you Mister Rabbitte?

—Yeah.

—Jimmer said she – Missis Rabbitte, like – wouldn’t mind if I, like, got something to eat.

Jimmer was young Jimmy, another of Jimmy’s sons.

The kid’s face had gone past red; he was turning black in front of Jimmy. He was holding a chicken leg.

—Will I put it back?

He was an old-fashioned young fella.

—Did you eat any of it? said Jimmy.

—Kind of, said the kid.

He looked at the leg.

—Yeah.

—You’d better eat the rest of it so, said Jimmy.

—Thanks.

—Where’s Jimmy?

—Your son, like?

—Yeah.

—Upstairs.

—Grand.

—We’re doin’ a project, said the kid.

—What’s your name?

—Garth.

—What?

—Garth.

—And what’s the project about, Garth?

—Supertramp.

—Wha’?

—The group, like.

—You mean, the group tha’ were shite back in the ’70s twenty years before you were born and are probably even shiter now?

—No way are they shite, said Garth.

—Who listens to them?

—I do, said Garth.

Jimmy liked Garth, and he liked the feeling that he liked him.

—And tell us, Garth? he said.—Are you some kind of a born-again Christian, tryin’ to convert my son to Supertramp?

—No way, said Garth.—He converted me.

—He what?

—He says the CD’s yours.

—It isn’t.

—He says it is, said Garth.—It’s old looking and the price on the sticker is in old punts, like, not euros.

Aoife walked in.

—Tell Garth here, said Jimmy.

Garth was turning black again and he was trying to put the chicken leg into his pocket.

—Tell him what?

—That I hate Supertramp, said Jimmy.

—You don’t, said Aoife.

—I do!

—Don’t listen to him, Garth, said Aoife.—He loves them. Or he used to.

She walked across the kitchen. Garth was trying to get away
from her. He looked like he was going to climb up into the sink.

—Go on then, Jimmy said to Aoife—Name one Supertramp song.

She hadn’t a clue – she never had.

—’Dreamer’, said Aoife.—’The Logical Song’, ‘Breakfast in America’, ‘Take the Long Way Home’, ‘It’s Raining Again’. I think that’s the order they’re in on the Greatest Hits collection you used to play all the time. Is your dad a music fascist too, Garth?

—Don’t know.

Jimmy gave up. There was no point in trying to talk to Aoife now – not about Supertramp; fuck Supertramp – about the cancer.

He went in and sat with Brian for a while. He sent Brian up to bed, then sent Garth home, and the others went to bed. It was running taps and the toilet flushing for about an hour, and quiet shouts, and a loud thump that must have been Marvin giving young Jimmy a dig or young Jimmy giving Marvin a dig. He hadn’t seen either of them all night but the house was full of them. And he could hear Mahalia singing. He sat in the dark and listened to the life above him.

I’ll miss this
.

He hadn’t felt it coming and he got rid of it quickly.

Sentimental shite.

Now he lay on the bed with Aoife. She was crying onto his chest.

And he liked it.

—I bet Supertramp have a song about cancer, he said.

—Fuck off you.

—I never liked them.

She lifted her head.

—You did.

—Okay.

She put her head back down.

—You’re such a baby.

—It’s why you love me.

He heard her gulping back her tears, trying to stop.